Page 109 of That Time We Kissed Under the Mistletoe
“Well, that’s all that really matters,” he says as my mom comes floating around the corner. Her hair is in a perfect updo and her red gown swooshes behind her. Even after a long night of hostessing, the woman looks pageant ready.
Mrs. America: Sixty-Plus Division.
“Oh, Sara. I’m so glad you’re all right.” She hugs me too, on the opposite side of my father, then she takes a step back appraising me. “Lovely gown, dear. Is it new?”
“No.” I look down at my skirt. “I wore this one last year.”
“Really?” She furrows her brow. “You brought a dress with you to Abieville?”
“I have a new one at the tailor’s, but I wasn’t sure the alterations would be done in time, so I brought a couple of backup dresses in case I got delayed at the house longer than expected. Which, it turns out, I did.”
“That’s my girl,” my dad says, patting me on the shoulder. “The future of Hathaway Cooke. Always prepared.”
Oof. Now the knots in my stomach have knots.
“You must be starving,” my mother chimes in, although I can’t imagine eating a thing in this moment. “I had the caterers set aside a plate for you.” She nods toward the swinging doors that lead to the kitchen. “We served filet mignon, artichoke, and parmesan fingerlings. All your favorites, for your birthday.”
“Thanks, Mom. I wish I could’ve joined you.”
My father grins at me gamely. “Well, there’s always next year.”
And the year after that. Forever and ever. I press on a smile. “So. How did your speech go?”
My mother pats his shoulder. “He was wonderful, as always.”
“And the auction?”
She beams at me. “The Abieville getaway was one of the biggest hits of the evening,” she says. “And we owe all that to you. I was a little worried when you weren’t here to speak, but everything worked out.”
“Now that’s an understatement,” my dad chimes in. “Your mother left out the part where we hit our highest fundraising numbers ever tonight. A new record. New goal to exceed next year.”
“Wow, Dad.” I grin at him. “That’s incredible.”
“And yourfatherleft out the part where he made a little addition to his speech this year,” my mom says. “After sharing the usual story about the miracle of your arrival, he tacked on a harrowing narrative about you not being here because you were caught up in that dreadful Lincoln Tunnel debacle.” She presses her lips together. “He played on everyone’s sympathies with a new twist, since so many of them have heard the rest before.”
“And it worked,” my dad interjects.
“But you made it sound like our Sara could’ve been in peril.” My mother shoots him a horrified look. “Our only child, Charles.”
“Could’ve, Kate, notwas.” He turns and tosses me a wink. “So I may have laid the drama on atadthick, but it was for the children. A worthy cause, wouldn’t you agree?”
I hunch my shoulders. “Sure?”
“Now we’ll be able to donate the most money Children’s Village has ever received from a single event.” He arches a brow. “Until next year.”
My mother rolls her eyes, even as a smile tugs at her lips. “You’re only competing with yourself, dear.”
“That’s just plain smart,” he says. “It’s a guaranteed win.”
“Mom’s not wrong,” I say, nudging him. “Youarepretty competitive.”
“Mea culpa.” He splays his hands, letting out a soft chuckle and not sounding the least bit guilty. “Now, if you two will excuse me, I’m off to tip the staff.”
As he heads across the room, pushing through the doors into the kitchen, my mom rounds on me, her brow hitched. “You know, you’re almost as competitive as he is, Sara.”
I lay a hand over my collarbone in mock protest. “Moi?”
“Vous.” She huffs out a laugh. “Between the two of you, I’ve lived the past twenty-nine years in the middle of an overachiever sandwich.”
